Lease on Life
by ClockworkSky
Summary: It is the year 2314. The world is teetering on the brink of possible tragedy, stemming from nuclear waste and war, but the events set into motion on Christmas Eve may hold the key to saving or unraveling everything. This fic is loosely based on Rent.
1. Prologue

**Lease on Life**

**by: LycanNoir**

**A/N: **This is my first Hetalia fanfic, and it's actually the first fanfic I have written for at least a year. I'm probably rather rusty, so please be kind in your assessment of my work, but constructive criticism is always, always welcome.

This fanfic is based heavily upon the musical Rent by Jonathan Larson. Further, it draws a tiny bit of inspiration from the source-work of _that_, the even older classic opera _La Boheme_, even though I am not cultured enough to have seen the latter. While you shouldn't expect the characters to burst into song, several of the (planned) chapters take some conversations, dialogs, themes, and concepts from the lyrics. When a chapter follows a particular song very closely I will try to let my readers know in the author's note, particularly for the benefit of other Rent fans. It is **not** necessary to have seen Rent to understand my fic.

**Opening Acknowledgments:** My eternal gratitude to everyone at au_hetalia, particularly to Kat, Dollfie, Iggy, and Tara for their free advice and having been there at all hours of the night and day. Further, thanks to my best friend Darla for answering a handful of Japanese questions so I would better know how to handle Japan as a character.

**Disclaimer:** Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson. I don't own anything of value and this is written entirely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

_**Prologue**_

_New York City, New York_

_24 December 2314 _

The tension in the air was almost as thick as the city smog as the sun began to set over New York. The irony of the date was barely noticed as delegates and hundreds more swarmed on the United Nations' international territory in Manhattan. Tomorrow negotiations would begin, and the news media was in a constant, humming frenzy. Everyone on Earth was asking the same silent question.

"Is this our last chance?"

***

Italy stuck the tip of his tongue out just past his lips as he concentrated on holding the loops in place on his knitting needle. The quickly-shrinking mass of white yarn had long-since unraveled and now lay about his legs and tangled around his ankles as he moved his feet idly back and forth against the couch. Suddenly, a blonde calico cat leapt into his lap and began batting at the yarn, rolling and tangling in it before Italy could stop him.

"Pasta! Silly cat..." Italy scolded gently, laughing at the cat as he leaned forward and gently, patiently untangled the cat and moved him to the top of the coffee table. The cat mewed willfully but then began to pace the length of the table, its back paw briefly resting on the television remote, long enough to edge up the volume. The newscaster's voice grew louder, but Italy was too focused on knitting to notice what she was saying.

"_...more delegates arriving by the hour. Tomorrow morning, Christmas Day, could possibly bring with it real peace on Earth. _

_After the most recent reactor leak in Japan, nuclear contamination is at an all-time high. The death toll approaches 2,000, with more isolated cases of radiation poisoning being reported daily, especially among the elderly. Following the leak, Russian officials still defend the expansion of their own peaceful nuclear program, with pressure for the phasing out of nuclear energy being applied from all other G8 members. The wars in the Middle East over the ever-rarer oil deposits have been called to truce for this important summit. Without this meeting, no one knows what will happen. Goodwill towards men seems to be more important now than ever, and as the dawn approaches our nation and the world hold their breath..."_

"Out already?" Italy asked aloud as the end of the white yarn touched his needle. The urgent news broadcast hadn't even garnered his attention. He held out his project—the beginnings of a toboggan with a red top and now white middle section. He glanced over at his basket to see if he had anymore white yarn, but all he saw were spools of red and green. He looked around his apartment for a moment, trying to decide if it was worth going out to buy more white yarn at this time of day. He looked out the window and saw snow spitting down from the murky winter sky. He stood up quickly and dusted off his paint-stained khaki cargo pants and began searching for his left shoe.

He got down closer to the floor and searched under the couch, startling Pasta and narrowly missing a warning swipe of his claws.

"Sorry," he said softly as he fumbled and reached the wayward sneaker and sat in the floor, much like a little boy putting on his shoes.

He poked around the kitchen for a moment, finding his wallet and keys before lithely running out the door. As soon as he felt the cold air in the apartment building's long hallway, he unlocked the door and shrugged on a red jacket that wasn't quite thick enough for a New York winter to try and combat the cold.

Locking his apartment door once again, he moved quickly down the hall in pursuit of more white yarn, not having bothered to turn off the television.


	2. Chapter One: The Simple Solution

**Lease on Life**

**by: LycanNoir**

**A/N: **Thank you for the surprisingly fast, however small, reception to my prologue. I am currently not sure how I cam going to divide up my "Acts", but there is a reason for having them, if only for my own mental organization.

By the way, this fic is self-beta'd except for getting _some_ feedback from my lovely au_hetalia friends, so if anyone wants to volunteer to be a beta, that would be more than welcome.

I'm not quite sure how to explain this, even though I think the story itself will eventually make some of this apparent, but in spite of the fact that they may have hints of memories, history as far back as World War II and even our present day is a bit fuzzy for the nations because of all the events that have transpired up to the point that this story takes place. This is particularly true for Germany, who has forgotten more than all of the others and isolated himself from the past because of memories he found shameful. But anyway, all of this _will_ be explained, so I just wanted to let you know that there was a reason for the fact that they don't really refer to anything in the series as being fact unless it's explained... It _did_ happen, it was just a long time ago...

* * *

**Act I**

**

* * *

  
**

_**Chapter One: The Simple Solution**_

_New York City, New York_

_24 December 2314 _

Japan stared at the television set, but he wasn't really listening to it. He shallowly inhaled the steam of a tiny mug of green tea, closing his eyes. He was stretched out, leaning his back into the couch, his sock-feet propped on the coffee table. While he normally wouldn't have been so inconsiderate of the furniture, he was distracted and light-headed, as he found himself more and more lately. His body ached and he was much paler than usual, and yet he pressed on each day, still getting up and going to work, but calling in sick was becoming more and more frequent. If it hadn't been for America, he wouldn't have been able to pay rent at all, and as much as he usually loathed his dependence, for once he was actually thankful for it.

The rattling of keys escaped his notice as America unlocked the door. Alfred's arms were full of shopping and take-out bags, such that he had to kick the door open and wasn't able to properly close it until he put down the bags. Japan's eyes opened at the sound, but otherwise he didn't react or even look around to see America.

"Feeling any better?" America asked, his voice cheery as it usually was.

"A little," Japan replied before even really considering the question. Eventually he drew his legs up and turned around so his back rested against the arm of America's excessively plush sofa.

"I brought you some sushi," America explained as he began emptying the bags, putting some things in the refrigerator, some on the table, some in cupboards.

"I see," Japan said evenly, watching his roommate's frenetic movements. He would offer to help, but the fatigue he felt today was worse than usual. He knew that there must be something happening to his people once again, but he was afraid to turn his focus to the news to find out exactly what. If he were to concentrate he could _feel_ it, but he was afraid, terribly afraid. It seemed it never ended lately, and until the summit was over he could only manage to hope so much. Instead, he faced each day with calm resignation, trying to believe that things would turn around before—

"...and some rice balls, and some sukiyaki, and ramen, and teriyaki, and..." America suddenly continued as he retrieved another bag from across the table and began opening and spreading out containers full of take-out.

Japan stared, dark eyes slightly brighter with something between horror and amusement at the copious amounts of food being spread out on the table. He suddenly felt almost guilty that he could never match America's ravenous appetite. It occurred to him that one of the ways Alfred liked to care for his friends was by feeding them when they were at a convenient distance. He hated to disappoint him, but his lean and small body just wasn't able to hold that much.

He finally stood and walked over to America and began to go behind him and organize the things that America haphazardly threw upon the shelves. A few moments later, they sat down to eat and Japan, as usual, made a comparatively small plate for himself and ate very quietly and slowly. He still insisted on using chopsticks most of the time, and it was by necessity a bit slower than America's rapid near-inhalation of food, but he had grown accustomed to his roommate's habits.

"Have you heard anything further about the summit?" Japan asked, fulfilling America's expectation of dinnertime chatter.

"No," America replied with his mouth full, swallowing after a moment. "But I feel good about it so far. Not everyone has shown up yet, so we still have time to be patient."

Japan knew that he was trying to sound reassuring, but America was always overly-confident and he just wasn't sure that it was as simple as his western ally made it sound. There was a lot of opposition to the simplest solutions to the growing problem of nuclear waste and pollution—not to mention a thousand other political interests invested in what was left of the fossil fuels.

A black, cordless phone on the wall began to light up, outlined in red with the rhythm of its ringing, breaking the brief and uncomfortable silence.

"I'll get it," America said before Japan could twitch to get up.

That was the way America treated him. He wasn't sure whether he thought it was considerate and kind or if it was presumptuous and rude. In trying to help him in his illness, America suddenly seemed to think that Japan should never make a single move without being aided in some way.

"Hello?"

Japan got up and began washing the dishes quietly, ever concerned with being polite. He didn't want to eavesdrop, and the temptation was further eased by the fact that he knew that America would tell him what the call had been about when he hung up anyway. Moments later and true to form, he felt his taller friend stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him and begin drying the dishes.

"That was Germany," Alfred explained. "He said he was sorry that he was running late. Something had come up. He sounded a little upset, but you know that's just--"

Japan made a small sound in his throat, something between acknowledgment and a distant little whimper as something flashed in his mind that he couldn't quite explain. He didn't know why, but for the last couple of decades it felt as though something important of the past had been lost and ignored. He wasn't sure what it was, but the painful nostalgia washed over him for a moment like a tidal wave, and then he was himself again.

"Japan? ...Kiku?" America asked in a low tone of voice.

"Yes?"

"Are you all okay? You look pale all of the sudden..."

"I'm fine, America-san. You were saying something about Germany-san."

"You don't have to call me that," America sighed, almost instinctively irritated with formality. "Anyway, yeah, he said that he'd be a bit late but that he'd be here. I still wonder why he sounded so upset, though..."

"There are many things going on in the world right now. Too many to keep track of, so perhaps his people need him."

"Maybe, but I think he was--"

A steady, rhythmic, almost playful knock was suddenly heard at the door. It was too solid and firm for a child, though. It gave Alfred a chill up his spine.

"That can't be him already," he said, swallowing the little lump of fear that welled in his throat.

Japan carefully removed his kitchen gloves and hung them up to dry and wiped his hands with a folded dishcloth.

"I'll answer it this time," Japan offered and took a few steps toward the door.

"N-No!" America said quickly, _almost_ masking his stammer. He put his hand in front of Japan and stood up, straightening his shoulders a bit, always playing the hero as he stepped toward the door, ready to protect everyone from anything. He looked over his shoulder, trying to be the picture of confidence with his best winning smile. "I'll get it. Probably just some salesmen."

It was a silly comment, really, because salesmen would hardly be out so late in the evening, especially on _Christmas_ Eve. Kiku resisted the urge to roll his eyes and remained calm save the slightly amused little smile on his face. Always the hero...

"Hi!" America started as he unlocked the door except for the chain. "Oh," he said, not quite so friendly. "Russia," he managed cordially. He closed the door without explaining that he was unlatching the chain. Let him sweat it, he thought. Then he opened the door and laxly held it open.

"I may come in?" Russia asked, his smile and scarf ever-present. With his question he stepped forward to stand on the threshold, not giving America much of a choice if he wanted peace.

"Fine," Alfred replied, turning his back to the door and walking into the kitchen toward the divide in the floor that went from vinyl-to-carpet and dining-to-living room. He kept his shoulders back, hands tucked casually into his pockets. He wanted to maintain his cool in front of Russia, to not appear the slightest bit intimidated. Leisurely he turned back to face his guest, sitting on the back of the sofa. He spared Japan a cursory glance and noticed that Kiku's eyes seemed suddenly red as if he were about to cry and, further, that he didn't turn around to greet Russia.

"What do you want?" Alfred eventually asked after he began to feel uncomfortable with the way Ivan's pale eyes were looking at Japan's back.

Russia turned his gaze to America's own blue eyes and his smile grew even bigger.

"You know very well why I am here, America. Why don't you join m—us, Japan?"

Japan tried to make a show of clattering the dishes rather loudly as he put the last of them away but sneezed into his sleeve before he could have much of a follow-through. Begrudgingly, he turned to face the nation, looking suspiciously with red-rimmed eyes at the heavy overcoat, the scarf, the not-so-neatly pressed buttoned shirt, and finally at Russia's eyes. His face was relatively serene and masked the emotions and the sickness he felt when standing in the same room with Russia. There was also a hint of fear in his stomach, but he did not let it show. He did not say anything, but this was America's apartment and he didn't have the right to be completely rude to someone Alfred allowed inside. Still, he had no intentions of speaking.

"Russia. You came here for a reason. Spit it out," America demanded.

Russia prolonged the pause for just a moment more, not allowing America to demand anything from him.

"As you both know the summit is tomorrow, and—ah, where is England?" he asked, suddenly aware of the other island nation's absence.

"He—He's..." America found himself faltering and glanced at Japan. The reasons England had left were not something that he ever really thought about much. He tried not to, and he and Japan hadn't spoken of it yet.

Japan saw his friend's eyes flick to him and swallowed hard, deciding to speak to show some solidarity with him.

"He's with my... brother."

"Ah, I see. I see. China, too, has been avoiding me. Do he and England have any plans for an official alliance?"

"How should I know?" America asked, a spark of rebellion—independence—rekindling and the thought of England's absence.

"So you've so quickly replaced him, have you?" Ivan asked Kiku.

Japan looked at him, his brow twitching with confusion, but his serenity wasn't easily broken before someone he was so wary of.

"I'm really not sure what you're talking about, but I hardly think you came here to see how America is getting along with his _friends_..."

Russia used his hands in his pockets to hold his overcoat more tightly around him, masking any sting that Japan's words might have had with the slight muscle tension, his smile never faltering, his gaze just as intent as ever.

"Of course, to business. As you know, my people, my boss, and several of my... friends... have come up with quite the simplest solution to all of our problems. Including yours, Japan."

"What does this have to do with him?" America asked, feeling that he might need to protect Japan. This feeling was bolstered by yet another sneeze from his roommate.

"It has to do with all of us. The whole world," Russia remarked, running a gloved hand over the edge of the kitchen counter, watching his own fingers. "You know that all of us, the _entire_ world, are scrambling for answers. For power, for time, for life... And all of you keep on clinging to this notion of 'capitalism'. You want the world to be healthy and happy, and yet you insist upon letting the dog-eat-dog mentality continue. You _know_ the only way out, America."

"To give up our freedom and to grovel to a faceless, nameless unity that would tear us apart even further," Alfred replied, every word dripping with bitter sarcasm. "I don't think so, Russia. We've got all the unity we need in our friendships, and we don't need your communist ideas forcing their way into our lives."

"You fight against the equality and justice you claim to promote!" Russia shouted, his face still calm, frighteningly calm, but his eyes teetering once again on the edge of a kind of madness. "You'll come to see it my way! All of you will! Every single one of you, including _England_, no matter how much he and his people decide to protest."

"Protest? If you knew what he was doing, why did you ask us, Russia?" Japan asked.

America couldn't help but glance rather suddenly at Japan. He hadn't used an honorific with Russia—he must be quite a bit more upset by Russia than his expression let on.

"I'm showing you that you have no unity! No 'friendships' and no alliances. You're capitalist dogs who won't take the only bone that will save you. If you don't stop him from making this mistake, all of you will regret it. You'll see!" With that he inhaled and was suddenly calm again. "You'll see," he repeated in a much calmer voice, quiet, serene and gentle. "It was nice seeing your faces again..."

And with that he turned and took his leave, gingerly closing the door behind him.

America continued sitting on the back of his sofa for a moment, then moved to lock the door. He turned to Japan who was still standing very still by the kitchen counter, the redness around his eyes and nose quickly fading.

"Need anything?" America asked.

"No, America-san," Japan replied, walking to the coffee table to retrieve a tissue.

America sat on the couch next to him and for a moment absently admired the fantastic array of colors produced by the lights adorning the Christmas tree in the corner. The stack of presents looked picturesque and inviting. He tried to avoid looking sadly at the small stack of green-wrapped presents in the corner, tried not to mourn the fact that England had decided to leave. He had his reasons, and America tried not to question them. After all, even if they weren't the _real_ reasons, he knew that he'd make the same choices again. He grabbed for the remote and turned up the volume on the television and began changing the channels idly.

"Tomorrow is Christmas," Japan remarked softly.

"Yeah."

"You're usually more excited..."

"I am... it's just hard to be with all of this going on. My people are scared of the future—everyone is...so..."

"Yes, but this is _you_ we're talking about, America-san," Japan replied with a small, wry smile and a sideways glance at America.

Alfred laughed more freely and kicked off his shoes, stretching out comfortably with his feet irreverently atop a stack of his own papers on the coffee table.

"I guess I really am getting old."

"That reminds me..." Japan said, trailing off and getting to his feet. He walked quickly and softly into his room and America could hear him rummaging around. When he returned he almost casually tossed a small gift box that hadn't been previously placed under the tree.

"What's this?"

"Open it when you want. It's just something I got for you. It doesn't have to be for Christmas. I'm just saying thank you."

"Oh," America replied, his cheeks coloring slightly as he looked at the obsessively neat little wrapped package. He decided to put it aside for the moment, in spite of the childlike curiosity that welled up in his chest. "I told you you didn't have to thank me. Not ever. Not for this..."

"I wanted to say thank you, America-san. The polite response is, 'You're welcome.'"

"Yeah, but you know me."

"Yes, I do," Kiku replied, again smiling more than he usually did, his dark eyes meeting his friend's. His tone of voice left it open to interpretation as to whether or not he thought it was a good thing, but in recent times America had learned to read his vague ally much better.

America sat up and untied his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the white tee-shirt beneath, before lying back and squirming. He was trying fervently not to let his nostalgia for the past or his trepidation toward the future put a damper on Japan's first Christmas Eve with him.

Japan flinched unnoticeably as America's larger shoulder brushed against his as Alfred squirmed to get comfortable. He swallowed his embarrassment, though, and decided that it wasn't so bad. In fact, he dared to think, it might even be nice. He didn't want to take for granted the fact that he had such a close ally—such a close friend—in this time when real friends or even any friends at all were so hard to find. He didn't know what he would have done without America's help since he had started to get sick.

"I wonder what's taking Germany so long," America said, looking at the clock.

"He told us he would be late. Maybe I should go find some sheets to put on the couch for him tonight?" Japan sighed as he continued, "I really don't like the fact that Germany-san won't take my bed for the night."

"You know it doesn't make a difference to him, and you're sick. Stay where you are. I'll make it up when he gets here."

Japan chuckled softly.

"It mustn't make a difference to him, then."

"Hey, what's that suppos--"

Kiku's tiny, sleek cellphone began to buzz on the coffee table and to play a soft little song. He leaned forward and reached for it, tilting it to check the caller-ID.

"Who is it?" America asked bluntly. Japan met his eyes and there was a subtle, old sadness in them that he couldn't quite place. Before Kiku could answer him, he knew, then.

"England-san," Japan replied, a hint of reluctance in his voice. He met America's eyes with his for a single moment, careful not to let pity show in them, only a twinge of the guilt he felt as he flipped open the phone, pressed it to his face and stood, walking into the next room to take the call.

America sat back with resignation. He tried to drown out his curiosity by feigning interest in his television until he found something he could actually pay attention to. Still, he couldn't help but let his mind wander. England hadn't called him for days, weeks—maybe it had even been a month or two. He tried not to let the jealousy, the lack of understanding sink in. He stared at the moving pictures on the screen, watched as they changed at the touch a button, and found that even his toys held less joy than they did before. The world was darker than it had been so long ago when he had been a child. He glanced back toward Japan's room and wondered what it must feel like for Japan. Still, no matter how many things he tried to distract himself with, there was the gnawing question, seated deep within his chest...

Why was it that when he was finally doing something he felt was right that England had decided to run away?


	3. Chapter Two: Come here, Kiku

**Lease on Life**

**by: LycanNoir**

**A/N: **I am deeply apologetic for the ridiculous amount of time it took me to write and post this chapter. I was in the process of moving and in the midst of a somewhat stressful family vacation, and just sat down today with the intention to finish Chapter Two or die. I think I have managed to do the former and hopefully will live through the rest of the day without the latter. I appreciate those of you who have read this!

I am actually continuing this the way I promised myself I would for once! This fic still remains un-beta'd. I'd like a beta seeing as I caught a tiny little error in the last chapter that _bugs_ me, but that I've been to lazy/busy to go back and fix. I appreciate everyone who has read this so far, and I really do love feedback even though I don't demand it at all. Constructive criticism on anything, especially characterization is very, very much encouraged. Enjoy if you can! Brownie points if you know where the random chapter title came from.

_**Chapter Two: Come Here Kiku...**_

_New York City, New York_

24 December 2314

Japan slipped as far into his bedroom as he could with the phone, speaking clearly but very softly when he answered. There was no reason to ignore England. After all, none of them had done anything wrong. He knew that, but that did not stop the quiet gnawing of nervous guilt as he answered the phone.

"Mochi mochi, Igirisu-san," he said, almost too calmly.

"Good evening, Japan," England replied with equal, uncomfortable, forced formality. He tried not to slouch at all, in spite of the fact that Kiku couldn't see him through the phone. _Stop it. You're just fine,_ he thought and cleared his throat.

"How are you?" Japan asked, the weight of the question making it seem that it was England, not Japan, who was ill.

"Fine," Arthur responded hastily, refusing himself time to contemplate any other answer. He decided to cut to the chase before his pride caused him to change his mind.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Kiku, but this dread machine—my computer, I mean—is simply refusing to scan in some of my photographs, and it's vitally important that I have this ready to print tomorrow morning before the summit. It's Christmas Eve and so no one else can help me so, I'm really terribly sorry, but could you--"

"Of course, Igirisu-san," Kiku interrupted. It was the least he could do, he thought. "Consider it done."

"Thank you," Arthur replied, ending the call hastily and all but hanging up on his Asian friend.

Kiku closed the phone and watched as the light faded quickly from the dark room. He sighed softly and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out for the lamp and turning it on. He glanced at the door and thought about Alfred and was surprised at just how torn this was making him feel. He pulled the teeshirt he was wearing over his head and folded it neatly on the bed before finding a more neatly-fitting shirt and a warm hooded sweatshirt in his closet. New York winters were not very inviting for someone in a weakened state such as he was, but he knew that England wouldn't have asked him for help had it not been important. He rummaged around a bit in the bottom of the closet, searching for his handful of tools and discs that he refused to be without when working on "dread machines". He smirked a bit at how frustrated they seemed to make England.

As he felt what he thought was the strap of the bag he was looking for, he pulled at it, tugging until he almost fell backward, simply appalled at how messy he had allowed things to get. His roommate was rubbing off on him too much. He looked at his acquisition from the depths of the closet and saw that it was not what he had been looking for. It was a knapsack, or more specifically, a Hello Kitty knapsack. Japan's eyes narrowed at it as he unceremoniously stuffed it back into the back of the closet. He felt a surge of irrational irritation at how guilty it made him feel that England wasn't living here anymore. England was living with his older brother no less. There was some bitter irony to the way the world was now. It didn't make sense, any of it, and he felt like there was far too much of it that was his fault.

He sat still for a long moment, needlessly breathless for the simple exercise. Then, with a simple exertion of will, he began to breathe normally, almost shallowly again. He patiently sorted through his things until he found a dull gray messenger bag. He shouldered the strap and stood, closing his eyes and briefly dreading leaving the apartment.

When he left his bedroom he looked at the television, blaring away about a kitchen cleaning product that everyone should own—at least, everyone who didn't have more important things to worry about. Of course Alfred wasn't watching the news, as Kiku admitted he would have been likely to do. After all, what could anyone say? _What can I say?_ he wondered.

"I'm going out, America-san," he said simply, looking at the back of the blonde's somewhat messy hair.

"The Brit still can't take care of himself?" he asked without looking around.

Japan idly thumbed the shoulder strap of his bag.

"He just called to ask for help with his computer."

"On Christmas Eve? That lonely, huh?"

"I do not think--"

"Never mind, Japan," America sighed, his contempt fading away a bit.

"Right, of course, America-san," Japan replied with a curt bow. Alfred couldn't have seen it, but the other nation did decide at that moment to pivot his body around to look at his roommate. "Tell him--" he started.

"Yes, Alfred-san?" Japan asked awkwardly, gently.

"Nothing."

"Merry Christmas?" he offered.

"No. Never mind. It's nothing. Try not to get into any trouble," he teased with a bright smile that didn't manage to reach his eyes. The two searched one another's eyes for a moment, searching for some clean end to the conversation but there was none. It wasn't what was said, but what neither of them could say. Japan wanted to fix what he had put awry, but he couldn't fix what no one would say aloud was broken. Instead, he conceded with a slight nod and a weak smile, and grabbed his keys from by the door and left.

***

Down on the street, cold wind blew against Kiku's cheeks and nose until he thought about nothing but putting one foot in front of the other. He looked down, not making eye contact with any of the people he passed. Most of them were American, but even as he saw people from all the other nations of the world, he still didn't feel anymore at ease with them. He was sick, and he didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. Yet, he didn't want them to blame him, either. He really hadn't had a choice, had he?

The cold, muddy snow, turned to cold, sloshing water underfoot. He rolled his shoulder against the messenger bag and pushed his hands deeply into his pockets. His knuckles were tightly clenched against the cold. He remembered flashes of an argument he had heard the night England had left.

_"...you're acting insane!" _

_"Insane? While you're pandering to yet another nation that you think you can _fix_?"_

_"So you're saying you don't want him here?"_

_"This has abso-bloody-lutely nothing to do with him, and you know it! _Why _do you think you and I could _never—_" _

During the pause that followed, Kiku felt his heart drop down into his stomach. He was sitting, like a little child, just to the right of his door, his ear as close to it as he could get it without pressing his cheek to it. He knew—everyone knew—what neither of them would say. That silence—that awful silence, was what had kept them fighting for centuries. It was what still made Kiku feel like if only he could say something, he could stop getting in the way. But when he had heard them, and even now, he felt like a terrible person. Because as much as it saddened him, there was some flutter of relief within him, too, and he wasn't sure why.

_"How am I supposed to just stand by and let him be sick without trying to help?"_

_"This, _again_, isn't about you helping anyone. If he came to me to ask for help, I wouldn't have __refused, but you went beating the poor bloke's door down. He doesn't need you treating him like a child and feeling sorry for him. But that's why you _like_ it isn't it? He never tells you no! And isn't that just brilliant for you. Isn't it?! The nation who knows _everything_. That's fine with me though. Just splendid." _There was another painfully weighted pause. Kiku was tempted to peak out the door, trying to find out what was happening. He could only imagine the looks on their faces, and part of him was curious. Still, his more reserved exterior was glad that he couldn't. Then, he heard: _"Fuck it all! I'm leaving."_

The slam of England's bedroom door was one of the loudest things he had ever heard. He could only imagine what it had been like for Alfred.

Alfred.

Kiku got to his feet and, after a moment's pause, opened the door and looked into the living room. He didn't open his mouth to speak. What could he say? He just looked at Alfred with confusion and compassion. Part of him wanted to offer to leave instead, but he knew that would only make things worse. And he was getting so bad now—even though he would never admit it—he had no where else to go.

Alfred was sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees. His eyes were on Arthur's door and devoid of emotion. He felt numb and disbelieving. Arthur wouldn't really leave _him_, would he? For the briefest his mind went back to his own Revolution, and wondered if the fear, the surprise, the emptiness, were at all alike. But immediately his own sense of self and independence washed it away and it was replaced by anger. He would have shouted after him, but when he stood his eyes rested on Kiku.

The two surveyed one another for a long moment and something passed between them. Something neither of them could describe. Neither of them would have begun to try. America looked down, his blue eyes wide and... guilty. He pushed his hands down into khaki pockets and turned to walk into the kitchen, retrieving some kind of alcohol from the refrigerator. Kiku didn't bother staying to find out what kind. It didn't matter. He turned and walked in the other direction and closed the door.

Walking in the other direction.

Something he had become entirely too good at. There had been a time when he couldn't have imagined respecting the kind of nation he was becoming. Leeching, radiating, falling apart from the inside instead of from without. He never could have imagined the effects of disease. But they were here, flowing just beneath the surface. Before long, even that wouldn't hide it. Not if something didn't change.

He stopped at the foot of China's apartment building. Alfred chose to live in a walk-up—a nice one, but a walk-up nonetheless. His brother on the other hand had chosen a building that, as Kiku craned his neck, seemed to jut endlessly up into the night sky, all aglow with lights. And to think America was the flamboyant and glamorous one.

Kiku looked down and examined himself. The bottom of his trousers was drenched from choosing to walk in the cold, snowy weather. There was a time, a time not long ago, when he would have walked in with his head held high and felt right at home among the elite. He had been a power of his own right. But now, he had to muster his courage. Japan gripped his messenger bag's handle as he pulled his hand from its safe, warm haven in his pocket. He opened the lobby doors and nodded to the door man. It hadn't been so long that he wasn't recognized. Still, when the man looked at him he gave him a quick double-take.

"You look like hell, man," he commented in a Brooklynn drawl.

Kiku closed his eyes. He tasted the bitterness of anger in his mouth, but he knew that the description was quite accurate compared to what he had been before. He was pale, he was thin, he was sick.

"Thank you for your opinion," he commented dryly, but with a soft bite.

"Hey man, I didn't mean nothin' by--"

"I appreciate your concern."

Without waiting for further response he proceeded to the first open elevator and called the floor third from the top. He went to the right and knocked on one of the only two doors on the entire floor. He took a step back and waited, and when the door opened was surprised to see Yao standing on the other side of the door. He cleared his throat and nodded rather than bowing. He wasn't sure what kind of greeting to give China, even now.

"A-Aniki. I was here to help Igirisu-san with his computer," Kiku explained.

China looked surprised for a moment, but then he smiled warmly. It didn't spread across his face the way it had in previous centuries, nor did he scowl. Times were very different now. Still, he stepped back and opened the door wider, ushering his guest in.

"He went out, but you may have a seat, if you want. I can make you some food." Before Kiku could say anything, Yao was already prepared to begin cooking for him, just as he would have any guest.

"Thank you, China-san," Kiku replied, much more collected than he had been a moment previous. "That won't be necessary. I can just have a look at it and get out of your way."

China paused, looking down for a moment before making eye contact. He spoke in quiet earnest.

"You really aren't any trouble."

"I have to get back--"

"Home? Of course, I understand. That's his computer—right there." China pointed to a desk in the corner of a den. There was a mass of wires and stacks of paper strewn across it, seeming out of place in the otherwise organized and well-decorated room. He watched as his brother nodded and quietly, after slipping his shoes off politely, padded over to the desk and shook the mouse.

Japan sighed as he saw that Arthur hadn't even bothered to log off before leaving. Not that China would have had much use for his free press, but even so.

"Where did he go?" Kiku asked reluctantly, breaking the strangely empty silence. He didn't want to ask, but he was concerned.

China sighed a bit disgustedly, but he refrained from further upset in his voice.

"You know him. He got stressed and went to drink. Always was good at using substances outside his body to make things peaceful within."

Japan couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for his brother at that point. China still couldn't even think of taking any more potentially addictive medication than he had to. Old habits did indeed die hard.

"He _just_ called me to help him," he grumbled in annoyance. Out drinking on Christmas Eve. How _festive_. All of it was stupid really, that Alfred should sit and home and watch cartoons or a war movie and Arthur should go out and get sauced. How Arthur had ended up living in China's apartment was part of this story that he did not begin to understand. A piece of the puzzle out of place. A wrench thrown in an already malfunctioning machine. Still, strangely enough, it seemed to be the only comfortable and natural thing to have come out of this. Soon, Kiku found the problem. A single wire inserted into the wrong outlet. He pried it free, checked the interior for damage, and plugged it in the way it ought to have been in the first place, not being able to suppress a slight chuckle.

"He doesn't use this very often, does he?"

"Not since he moved in."

Japan shook his head as he crawled out from beneath the desk. The thought occurred to him that China probably could have fixed the problem if only England had bothered to ask him. It was Christmas Eve, and yet England had still called. Perhaps he had been thinking of America and was too afraid, too proud to call.

"Finished already?" China asked, disappointment thinly veiled in his voice. He looked over his little brother, tentative concern almost weeping from his eyes. Still, he wouldn't let any of it show in his voice or actions.

"Yes, Aniki," Japan said, reading his brother's eyes and feeling ashamed again.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. How is he?"

"I was only asking--" Yao sighed. The days he longed for were long gone, and he was too old to fathom how to get them back. Any of them. "He is fine. He's a responsible roommate, if messy. And he likes me to cook curry for him sometimes."

"He'll eat anything," Japan said without much forethought.

"Hey! What is that--" China started, tempted to go for his wok.

"I didn't mean to insult you. It is merely the truth. Goodnight, China-san."

Japan knelt to pull on his shoes and stood, giving his brother the most polite bow he had given in a long time.

Yao looked intently and wide-eyed at his little brother, thoughts of violence gone for the night.

"Take care--"

"Merry Christmas," Japan said casually. It wasn't his holiday but he did enjoy its peacefulness. He didn't have to think about painful things tonight. "_Ja ne_."

The door closed gently. Yao looked at it quietly, his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes still wide. They wandered to a tiny, tiny Christmas tree he and Arthur had agreed would suit in the corner.

"Merry Christmas," Yao sighed, in his big, empty apartment, to no one in particular.


End file.
